The Gödel Problem
by MarksandSpence
Summary: Sequel to The Thinker Challenge. Sherlock returns to London with Sio, helping her recover from the ordeal in Bahrain. They navigate the ins and outs of a faux marriage while confronting family, friends and old flames. As the dust settles, Sherlock begins to suspect that all is not as it seems with Sio and that her memory of events in Bahrain may not be entirely reliable.
1. Chapter 1

**The Gödel Problem**

**[Sequel to The Thinker Challenge]**

**Author:** Mad (marksandspence )

**Setting:** Post Series 3 of the BBC1 series, Sherlock. I have not incorporated anything from the teaser for Series 4 (= Moriarty's return), under the assumption that such events were resolved prior to the start of this story.

**Rating:** Mostly Mature (PG-13), occasional explicit (M).

**Summary:** Sequel to The Thinker Challenge ( s/10067366/1/The-Thinker-Challenge). Sherlock returns to London with Sio, helping her recover from the ordeal in Bahrain. They navigate the ins and outs of a faux marriage while confronting family, friends and old flames (with some helpful self-medication). As the dust settles, Sherlock begins to suspect that all is not as it seems with Sio and that her memory of events in Bahrain may not be entirely reliable.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based solely on the television show Sherlock that airs on BBC1, written by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I borrow their universe to play in and do not claim any ownership or intend to make any money off of this fun hobby of mine. All characters, except the ones that I have created, belong exclusively to them, the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's estate.

**Feedback**: As always, feedback is much appreciated. Happy also to discuss plot points and address ambiguities!

**Author's Note: **_I was going to keep this sequel under wraps, because it started out as more of an Epilogue 2 containing some exposition and some relationship stuff with a sprinkling of character development, i.e., not quite enough meat on its bones for a proper story. But then I had a dream. Literally. It was a crazy dream and introduced some very non-Sherlock elements, but gave me the skeleton of a plot that I think nicely wraps up the Sio/Sherlock storyline. So if things get a little crazy, that's just my subconscious going wild __ Oh, and yes you do need to read The Thinker Challenge for any of this to make sense!_

**Chapter 1: Witness to a Ruse**

Once they make it through passport control, Sherlock starts to notice a slight stiffness in Sio's walk – not unlike what casual runners look like as they walk from the finish line of their first marathon to the comfort station; starting strong and confident, but slowing with every step and sometimes collapsing at the end. She takes his arm and leans on it as they walk toward the gate. He says nothing.

The plane is a 777, with three seats on each side of the central aisle. John suggests the middle seat for Sio, but she takes the aisle, much to the frustration of Sherlock who despises being flanked. However, keeping John from planting seeds of doubt about the intentions of Sio's brother is paramount, so he begrudgingly concedes the window seat. The three of them sit in virtual silence while the plane leaves the gate and taxies. The minute the wheels of the plane leave the tarmac, Sio closes her eyes and does not open them again until the seatbelt sign is turned off.

Sitting there, she remembers the last moments she had with Cae, her brother. She did not cry, though it seemed an acceptable time to do so. Perhaps she was still angry with him; angry that her imagination did not match the reality of his thoughts. Or perhaps it was relief that stemmed the tears, knowing her ordeal would soon be over. Still, at that moment and for whatever reason, she accepted him at his word and refused to ask anything more. She gently climbed onto his lap to cuddle as she had when they were both children, kissing him on the cheek and pressing her hand against his.

Sherlock glances over toward Sio a few times, noting the stillness of her expression. He lifts his left arm, bringing his hand nearly close enough to touch her hand before quickly reaching forward to grab his book from the seat pocket as he notices her eyes begin to open.

"I thought you were asleep," Sherlock says as he examines the cover.

"You did _not_," she responds with a knowing frown.

"Obviously, but it seemed a reasonable way to start," he says with a pleased smile.

"Not a bad idea, though. You've been through a lot," John offers.

In truth, she feels herself straining to detect any unusual movements in the plane's trajectory and likely will continue to do so for the remainder of the flight, something that would have once come automatically, but now requires concentration. Sleep seems an impossible goal.

"Do you think there is anything you could do about that cut while we are on the plane? I'm afraid it is in rather unpleasant conflict with the placement of the seat cushion," she asks John, wondering if this is the cause of her lack of mental acuity.

"I'll ask for a first aid kit – I'm sure I can at least give it a bit of padding," John says as he reaches up to call the flight attendant.

"What about my _things_?" Sio asks Sherlock with narrowed eyes as they wait for the first aid kit to be delivered.

"Henry made sure your lab was reasonably packed up. I kept a few bits and pieces from your flat. Had to put _that_ on the market, of course." Sherlock responds.

"Couldn't you have just rented it out or something?" Sio asks, mildly annoyed.

"Too much trouble, frankly. And I didn't know if you would be coming back," Sherlock responds with just a lingering twinge of bitterness.

Which is totally unfair, of course. He _had _been able to put her out of his mind in the end, once the flat was sold and the physical evidence of her existence had been removed. It only required a steady activity to prevent thoughts from intruding and generally, he went back to the life he was most accustomed to – the one before her. All was perfectly acceptable. And yet, from the moment he saw that envelope at Molly's, he found himself in a rather frenzied state of energy, the like of which he can't quite recall having experienced before. Manic, is likely the correct term for it. Now, having her next to him, is the calm, the tempered anticipation.

"I suppose you're right. I hope you got a good price for it," she relents.

He just shrugs, "You can stay with me until you're sorted."

She nods.

An odd expression crosses John's face and after a brief pause, he asks, "So who did you get as witness…for the marriage? Presumably you still need one of those."

"Oh, here we go. John perpetually gets upset over being left out," Sherlock explains with a dismissive shrug.

"I'm not upset. Just curious," John peevishly responds. "I mean, after you faked your own death without telling me, you did promise not to…"

"I most certainly did not promise anything of the sort," Sherlock responds.

"Really, because I thought maybe you did," John says, annoyed.

"It was just a judge, John. It's not like there was any sort of _ceremony_," Sio explains.

"A simple matter of convenience. Nothing like the explosion of public sentimentality that you indulged in with Mary," Sherlock adds.

"Witness. Just asking whom you trusted more than me. _Again_," John snides.

"It was Wiggy, wasn't it?" Sio asks, turning to Sherlock.

"Indeed it was," Sherlock agrees.

"Your drug dealer. Good to know where I stand in the hierarchy," John responds.

"_Rubbish_. Can you imagine my brother having a conversation with Wiggy? That's what it was all about, really," Sherlock explains.

"And you didn't think I could keep a secret from Mycroft?" John says.

"We just thought it best to keep it a secret form anyone that _mattered_," Sio says.

"Umh hm," John mutters skeptically.

"Besides, you seemed oddly against the whole idea anyway. You might have talked Sherlock out of it and then where would I be? In a pile of bloodied stones, I suspect," she explains further.

Sherlock responds, "Exactly, John. You need to stop being so _sensitive_."

"I think we showed brilliant foresight, don't you?" Sio says to Sherlock.

"It has proven to be useful," he agrees. "And think how irritating it will be for Mycroft to discover he is now your brother-in-law."

"Don't worry, John. We promise to invite you to the divorce. Or perhaps you don't need a witness for that?" she asks, genuinely not knowing the answer.

"And if you are desperate to write a speech, you are more than welcome," Sherlock offers.

John scowls amiably.

"Speaking of Mycroft, what are the chances he will be waiting for us at baggage claim?" Sio asks, feeling tired at the thought.

"Virtually non-existent. Well, rather unlikely. Assuming they haven't suddenly implemented fingerprint checks…."

"But surely his spies must have told him that you left the country. Won't he be tracking your movements?" John asks, skeptical of Sherlock's confidence.

"Of course. Normally. If he weren't in quarantine," Sherlock answers.

"Quarantine?" John responds.

"He may or may not have been exposed to something that may or may not be dangerously contagious," Sherlock explains.

"Is he actually sick?" Sio asks, trying not to sound pleased.

"As a dog. Of course it's just a bit of food poisoning, but there might have been a mix-up in the lab that was processing his bloodwork," Sherlock responds with a satisfied grin.

John can't stop himself from laughing. He tries, but to no avail.

"You are a devil," Sio says, glancing sideways at Sherlock as she fights back a smile.

In the end, Sherlock had booked the flight in to Luton, to avoid the chaos and surveillance of Heathrow. It seemed to work, although there was a brief moment of panic as Sio was asked to leave a fingerprint at passport control. The agent explained it was a new requirement being phased in and since her passport was obviously new, would she mind participating? She agreed to avoid suspicion, regretting it instantly. Still, no alarms went off and they were able to breeze through customs and head straight for the taxi line.

Once safely inside the car, Sio says to Sherlock, "Have the driver drop John and I off at whatever hospital is convenient. We'll meet you back at Baker Street."

"Don't you want me to come?" Sherlock says half-heartedly as he really does _not_ care to.

"You hate hospitals and I hate witnesses. It won't take long – surely John can get us to the front of the line," Sio says casually.

"I'll do my best," John answers with some concern.

Sherlock nods, happy to be freed of this obligation.

When they reach the hospital, John is able to get Sio through to a room quickly. She requests to see a female doctor and sends John out into the hallway. He lurks and is able to get an idea of what is being done by glimpsing the comings and goings. One of the nurses passes a camera to the doctor through the curtain. The doctor passes a vial of blood to the nurse. After a while, a nurse beckons John back into the room.

Sio, waving a few bits of prescription paper at him says, "Be a dear, John, and get these filled while I get dressed. I'll meet you in the waiting area."

John takes the slips – antibiotic tablets, some antibiotic cream and painkillers. He nods and turns to go. Before heading to the pharmacy, he is able to catch a glance at Sio's chart as he makes a bit of small talk with one of the nurses with whom he has worked before.

A while later, John returns to the waiting area with the bag of medications. As Sio is getting ready to leave, she turns to him and says "I need to be alone for a few days. Will that be difficult?"

John, slightly confused about what she is asking, responds, "Do you want me to book you a hotel room? I'm sure I could find something…"

Sio sighs, "You misunderstand - I can be _alone_ with Sherlock. I'm just not ready to deal with Mycroft or anyone else."

"I'm not prepared to infect him with malaria, but if I get the opportunity, I'll see if I can negotiate some time," John says with a faint smile.

Sio nods. John steps out into the street to wave down a taxi. As he waits at the curb, he hears a text come in on his phone.

_SH:_ _Is she pregnant?_

John shakes his head before typing.

_JW: No._

_SH: Well that's something._


	2. Chapter 2: Of Smells and Clever Touches

**Chapter 2: Of Sights and Smells and Clever Touches**

"I've put your things in the spare room," Sherlock says as Sio walks through the flat toward the kitchen. She looks like she is about to drop.

"I think I need a bit of a sleep. The pills are kicking in nicely. Do you mind?" Sio says quietly as she continues her forward momentum toward the room.

Sherlock shakes his head and follows her to the kitchen.

"Shall I make us some tea before?"

"Alright."

She disappears into the spare room and after a moment, she pokes her head out with a wide grin.

"You bought a new bed," Sio says with surprise.

He responds with a tempered smile and an acknowledging shrug.

He had. A queen, no less. In fact, there was no small amount of internal conflict over where to put it – in his own room or the spare. He had finally settled on the spare, unwilling to change his room just in case it turned out to be unnecessary. It still seemed the best choice.

She returned to peruse the room to see what Sherlock had rescued from her flat. In the end, all she could find was a drawer full of lingerie, five books, a hairbrush and an A4 envelope containing a few pictures and papers with scribbled notes.

By the time Sherlock came to the door with her cup of tea, she was already asleep.

Sherlock, standing in the center of the main room of his flat, only notices the phone in his hand when he hears a voice coming from the other end.

"Hello?"

"John. What is it?" Sherlock says as he notices his violin case is still open.

"You called me."

"Did I?"

"Yes. I'm on my way out the door. What do you need?"

"Oh. Uh…" Sherlock stalls as he tries to remember what brought him to dial John's number, an action of which he has no memory.

"How's Sio?" John leads.

Right, it is starting to come back now. "I'm not sure," he confesses.

"That doesn't sound promising," John responds.

"No, I mean, I haven't actually spoken to her."

"It's been two days," John responds with some concern. "Has she eaten anything?"

"I don't think so. I've heard footsteps. The odd faucet in the bathroom."

"Ok, that's _something_," John sighs.

"I just don't know what I'm supposed to _do_ exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"What are my responsibilities as a husband?"

"Well. It's not a proper marriage is it, so I don't know if that is the question you should be asking. It's just a piece of paper," John says.

"Right. But suppose it weren't. Just for the sake of argument, what would that entail?"

"You're overthinking it. But I suppose a good starting point might be to try and get her to eat something. And then just talk to her."

"Right. Good. Yes." Sherlock says, abruptly hanging up the phone.

A few hours later, he taps on the door to the spare bedroom. Not hearing anything, he opens the door a crack.

"Mrs. Hudson has made some soup. It smells rather good," he says.

Without any movement, a voice emanates from the tousled pile of duvet, "give me a moment."

He rushes to the kitchen, searching his cupboards for bowls, only to find two sitting on the counter next to the pot that Mrs. Hudson had brought up. Along with spoons, napkins and a basket of rolls. He moves everything to the table and sits down. After a few minutes, Sio emerges from the bedroom, dressed only in one of his t-shirts and a pair of black knickers. The bruises on her legs have turned a paler shade of green since he'd seen them last. Her hair is in bedlam, but she did noticeably take the time to apply a bit of tinted lip balm. She walks to the table, sits and serves herself some soup, taking a roll from the basket.

"Do you have some water?" She asks quietly.

He gets up and quickly returns with a glass. They eat in silence for while.

"How long has it been?" She says.

"A couple of days," he answers.

"Sorry. I took too many pills. I don't remember…"

"It's quite alright. Do they help?"

"Not enough."

He nods. She finishes her bowl.

"Did you take that from the laundry?" He asks, indicating the undershirt.

"Do you mind?"

"No. But I don't understand…."

She starts, "Olfaction is the most ancient sense…," she pauses, subtly shaking her head indicating her lack of energy to explain fully. "I find it calming."

Sherlock frowns. "I am _actually_ here."

She looks over at him with a weak smile. "I know. But surely you have better things to do than spend two days in bed…._sleeping_." She is careful to emphasize the last word.

He nods. But then says quietly, "I don't mind."

She takes another bread roll. "I'm not traumatized or anything if that's what you're thinking. I just…._hurt_. The adrenaline got me quite a long way, but now…I've never felt so tired."

In truth, she is unsure, torn. She had not thought this far ahead. Would she be able to keep herself from flinching? Would the touch of his skin be calming or induce the reflexive shudder she had before. How embarrassing after all her words, her instruction. But she does not feel herself – she feels _new_, somehow. Reverted.

"Of course." Sherlock nods.

After a moment, he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, sitting up unnaturally tall. His lips move nearly imperceptibly as he considers his next choice of words.

Perceiving he is about to say something of import, Sio's eyes widen slightly as she tries to clear the fog from her mind. She starts to feel a bit ill at the thought of potentially having to censor her reaction.

After an implausibly long moment, Sherlock begins, "Regret is something I try never to indulge in, as it serves no purpose. However, for reasons I cannot quite divine, I feel compelled to acknowledge that I wish we'd parted differently. Perhaps there _was_ no point, but I regret muting your evaluation of that fact. It was your judgment to make."

Sio has to think a moment to even remember what he is talking about. So much has happened in the interim. Too tired to parse his motives – is he selfishly fishing to hear the words? Is he acknowledging their shared difficulty with expressing emotion? – she just stands up from her chair, wincing slightly from the movement.

"I'd like to have a shower," she says, trying to ignore the expectant look on his face. He nods. Before entering the bathroom, she turns her head to the side and adds, "It is easy to say when you don't mean it."

Sio emerges from the shower a while later. Wrapped in a towel, she walks into the hallway. At first, she turns toward the spare bedroom. She gets as far as reaching for the doorknob before pausing and then turning back around. She takes a breath and then heads toward the living room, where Sherlock is seated quietly _not_ reading the book that is in his hand.

"Lets get this over with," Sio says with resignation.

"What?" He asks.

She drops the towel.

"I haven't wanted you to get a good look. I knew you couldn't help but reconstruct. But I'm tired and don't want to hide." To keep her from dwelling on his gaze, she leads him as she does a quick twirl. "Three cracked ribs and an infected puncture wound on my lower back; the rest looks crap, but is just bruising."

With gingered movements, she picks up the towel, wraps it around herself and heads back to the bedroom without a word.

He'd had enough of a look in the car on the way to the airport to get the gist of it. This was worse, but he can understand why she would want him to see; the bruises most obviously left by hands – on her throat and thighs are the hardest to extricate from his mind. He does his best to temper the rising rage, as was clearly her objective.

It had taken hours to soothe himself – to remove the horrid reconstructions from his mind. A new composition had done the trick, though it took more effort than he was used to. An unfamiliar key, a rollercoaster of crescendo and diminuendo, all had been necessary to supersede his simmering anger and frustration. In the end, he had managed it and retired to his bedroom with only a fleeting thought to Sio's status, next door.

Hours later, Sio stands in the doorway of Sherlock's room. Awoken by pain, she had endured more to get up and find the bottle of pills she had mistakenly left in the bathroom. But instead of returning to the guest room, she took the more familiar path. Unsure what to do afterwards, she let herself lean against the frame of the door. If it hadn't been for her desperate tiredness, she would spend more time standing, as it was the position that caused her the least discomfort. The pills will kick in soon enough and she shouldn't risk accidentally falling over, so she takes a tentative step into the room. Soon, she is carefully climbing into bed next to Sherlock. Freed from the pressure of veiling her reaction, she places her hand gently on the middle of his back. Not knowing if he has noticed, she whispers, "Is this alright?" He neither moves nor speaks, she assumes because he is fast asleep. His eyes open, but he does not respond. She considers leaving, unsure of her motivation to share his bed in the first place. Had she _ever_ shared a bed for comfort alone? While she considers this, she drifts off to sleep.

Sherlock is awoken by the movements and distressed sounds of Sio having a nightmare next to him. He observes her for a few minutes before reacting – he thinks it might have been initiated by her rolling over onto her back in her sleep, though dreams are rarely so easily parsed. At first, he tries simply to roll her back onto her side, removing the friction on her wounded back. But then he decides to do something much more sensible. He gets out of bed, positions himself appropriately and then scoops her up in his arms. As her body is lifted off the bed, she awakes with a start. Sherlock carries her back the spare room and carefully places her onto the larger bed.

"Sorry," she whispers, rather mortified. She shifts herself into the only position in which she has been able to sleep these past days and sighs when the pain stops.

Sherlock moves the duvet over her, but instead of turning to leave the room as she had expected, he gets into bed next to her.

The next morning, Sio awakes to find Sherlock sitting up in bed, reading a book. He does not react as she blinks, rubs her eyes and props her head up on her elbow.

She squints to read the title of the book in his hands, "Mysteries of Bee Keeping Explained, by Moses Quinby. Is it good?"

His eyes flick over briefly to her when she speaks. He responds, "I've read it before."

"I don't suppose it's a read aloud sort of book," she inquires with obvious skepticism.

"Are you interested in beekeeping?" He asks.

"I can honestly say that I have never given it a thought," she answers.

"I suspect you might prefer a book that deals more directly with bees and navigation. Beekeeping is a rather technical endeavor," he says.

"Do you have such a book?" She asks.

"No," he responds.

Sio watches as he marks the page he was reading, closes the book and sets it down on the table next to the bed.

"You have a new scar," she says.

"At least two, I suspect. It has been a rather busy two years," he admits.

"The price of being an action hero?" She teases.

He glances over to her before answering, "it does come with the job, for better or worse."

"I couldn't do that. Put myself in a position where pain was a likely consequence."

Mildly annoyed at the perceived flattery, Sherlock frowns and says, "Why would you say something so patently untrue? You've just done _that_."

"I didn't do it on _purpose_. I was foolishly playing at something, with no thought given to the potential outcomes unrelated to my goal. I'd never do that _again_. The thought of it makes me feel rather ill."

"You _would. _Perhaps by mistake. Tunnel vision is an unfortunate consequence of genius."

"But not for you," Sio says with mild amusement.

"I wouldn't be able to do what I do if that were the case. Imagining every eventuality is absolutely required in my profession."

"Why don't you tell me about them."

"Tell you about what?"

"Your cases."

"Which ones?"

"I don't know. The good ones."

"Why?"

"I'm interested. And I'd like a distraction – something else to think about. Or you could read me your bee book."

Sherlock thinks a moment, then offers, "Perhaps we could make it a challenge. I will present the facts of the case and you try to solve it."

"But that seems terribly unfair. I'm sure I'll be useless at it."

"I can teach you," Sherlock says, his eyes lighting up.

Seeing his mood lift perceptibly, Sio nods, "Alright. But there will be no mocking. Else I'll give you differential equations to solve."

"There is _always_ mocking. Though I do have a particular aversion to equations – Mother used to punish us with calculus."

"Fine. Wouldn't want to give you another reason to call me mother."

Sherlock smiles rather gleefully as he brings his hands to his face and prepares to present the first case.

Hours (days?) later, Sherlock and Sio are in bed, her body now closer, their hands freely touching.

"It was the Vicar. Whatever his name was," Sio mumbles.

"You're getting good at this. _Finally_," Sherlock responds.

"Not really," she admits.

"You've got the last four. Or have you been reading John's dreadful blog?"

"Certainly not. I am simply Clever Hans."

"I'm giving it away?"

"Subtly. It's rather sweet."

"I suppose I'll have to write them down next time."

"What's the fun in that?" she answers, resting her head on his chest. He sweeps his fingertips up her back, then through her hair.

"What should we do now?" He leads.

Sio rolls back onto her side, propping her head in her hand.

"Do you have any alcohol?" She asks. "The pills are gone."

"I could get some. Or…something better," he responds with a raise of an eyebrow.

With a subtle nod from her, Sherlock slips out of bed and returns a few minutes later, brandishing the opium pipe she had given him.

"I kept a stash for just such an occasion," he says with a nearly boyish grin.

"For me or for you?" She responds with a skeptical frown.

Sherlock's expression turns vaguely sinister and he says, "you won't feel a thing."

He starts to prepare the pipe as she looks on. She sits up on the bed. Her expression changes as she snatches a pillow and starts to pick at the escaped down feathers clinging to the cover.

Sio takes an exaggerating breath, "before we do this and things quickly devolved into a haze of drugs…and sex, presuming the drugs work, I feel like I should…"

Cutting her off, Sherlock looks up from the pipe preparations and says abruptly, "no need."

With a bemused smirk, she replies, "but you know what I was going to say."

"I know your intention; whether or not you would have succeeded is an entirely different question. Thought it better to save you the turmoil," he responds, feigning distraction with the pipe.

Sio eyes him suspiciously, "How…_considerate_. But before you seemed to indicate a desire to hear the words, at least that was my interpretation."

"An incorrect one," he responds abruptly. Adding with a hint of typical condescension, "though a reasonably understandable mistake."

"What's changed?" She asks, setting the cushion aside.

"Nothing has changed. I told you, you _misinterpreted_," he responds rather coldly.

Sio sits up straighter, "this makes me want to say it just to see you squirm."

"Go on then," he challenges, glancing nervously between Sio and the pipe in his hands.

After an awkward pause, Sio relaxes her body slightly, "but if I say it, then you won't be able to say it back and that will ruin the mood,"

"How do you know?" Sherlock asks, now staring at the wall on the other side of the bed.

Deflating her body further, Sio responds, "I know because…I can't even say it now and if _I_ can't…"

"But you feel the same. As you did…when you nearly said it before?" Sherlock suggests, his mouth suddenly dry.

She forces herself to look him, her heart pounding hard.

"Yes."

"What I had intended to imply the other day is that, well, even though I never said it, I feel the same," he explains, shifting his gaze between Sio and the wall behind.

"Then we feel the same. Roughly speaking. As far as it is possible to actually know what another human experiences, which could still be not quite….perhaps with the right technology…" She lets her voice trail off without finishing her thought.

"Good. Yes," Sherlock responds, his body relaxing back into the contours of the bed.

There is a pause as they recover from this (relatively) intense moment.

Sio breaks the silence to say, "But do you wonder if there is a difference between knowing and being told? Why do they make such a fuss about it?" The 'they', as always, is understood between them as _everyone else_.

Sherlock thinks back to the day she left. He had been so angry, so frustrated by the situation that when she spoke, the words made him bristle; they stung and not in the usual way. But in the days after, when the anger began to shatter into mere shards of annoyance, he played them over in his mind, hearing her voice "Sherlock, I love…" He cursed himself for not letting her finish. But why? Why was it important to him to hear it all? Its not as though he really believed she was going to say "Sherlock, I love _blackberries_" or "Sherlock, I love _playing conkers_"; it was definitely going to be a "you" at the end of that sentence. Still. For a time, he desperately wanted it to be _her_ voice to finish it. He winces at his own irrationality.

"It is easier to detect a lie that is spoken," Sherlock responds. "They want to be reassured. Which is rather ironic since most people are useless at telling the difference."

"You can," Sio says in an almost whisper as she casually moves her arm close enough to just touch the side of his waist. _I wonder if I could_, she thinks to herself. She had always been disappointed at how easily they believed her fake words. So easy to say when they mean nothing and yet so many people desperate to believe them.

"Ready?" Sherlock says with renewed excitement, brandishing a lighter.


	3. Chapter 3: Sex and Death and Dreamt Beas

_Author's Note: The following chapter contains sexual situations. I will edit out the most graphic bits, but as most of the action of the chapter takes place in bed, I have elected to leave in some sexually descriptive language. It is pretty tame, but if you are sensitive to such things, you have been warned! If you are over 18 and would like to read the chapter in its entirety, it is posted on Adult Fan Fiction dot org._

**Chapter 3: Sex and Death and Dreamt Beasts**

Sherlock rolls off of Sio and after propping his head on his elbow, lets his hand loosely wander across the warm, damp skin of her torso. Her breathing is steadily calming, her body limp and over-relaxed, her eyes half closed. When his fingers reach the curls of her hair, he pauses them just a moment before slipping them further downward, parting her lips and feeling the swollen wetness beneath. He slips his fingertips inside, encouraging the flow of the juices he put inside moments earlier. As the fluid leaves her body, he uses his fingers to spread it onto the hair above, continuing until the area is drenched.

This is not typical of him, of them. Not that they were obsessively tidy about bodily fluids, but _before_, there was rarely the opportunity for leakage. Sio would usually clean herself up in between if she decided to stay for a second round and on the occasions when he had come outside of her, there was generally a reasonably quick response to avoid soiling the sheets (or carpet or settee). Perhaps it was just the erasure of inhibitions from the nearly continual high they had been on the past few days. Or maybe it is simply because there is no rush to leave, no necessary end to their trysts. Everything has become a bit sloppy. And much to his surprise, Sherlock has found it all rather titillating.

In a gruff sort of whisper as he continues to swirl his dampened fingers, he asks, "Why do I find this so arousing?"

Sio smiles and looks over at him with sleepy, contented eyes, "You haven't come outside me since I've been back, despite ample opportunity."

"Explain why that is relevant," he responds in a more professional tone.

"Your brain knows you can, so your body is trying to get me pregnant. There is no more primal drive than that," Sio explains.

He frowns, deferring to her knowledge in these matters. "Could I?"

She sighs heavily. "I don't really know. Maybe. I've been too afraid to look up the statistics on reversals."

"Should we be worried about that?" Sherlock asks.

"Abortion is easy to get in this country. And once I am feeling up to it, I'll explore more permanent options," she answers.

Sherlock blinks and tilts his head. "I just had a pang. Interesting."

Sio shifts up onto her elbow and says, "God, we'd make horrible parents. If the child even survived into adulthood, which is rather unlikely given our collective distractibility, it would hate us completely."

"Yes. Hate plus comprehensive intelligence – the perfect recipe for a Bond villain," he responds with a queer smile.

"We would surely have to step in at some point to prevent her from taking over the world," Sio adds.

"How are you so sure it would be a girl?" he asks, amused.

She tilts her head and blinks, "I don't know. I just assumed. Much easier if it was a boy."

"Boys don't ever want to take over the world?" Sherlock retorts with mild incredulity.

Narrowing her eyes, Sio offers with mock seriousness, "they do, but there seems to be so much more precedent in _defeating_ male super villains. I think a woman could throw a whole new wrench into the genre."

"Either way, probably would involve someone being thrown off a building or something," he says.

"I don't fancy that at all," she says.

"This can never happen."

"Agreed."

"I guess we could always give it to John and Mary. They're good people and the sort of parents children _should_ have," Sherlock offers.

"True. But it seems a rather awful thing to do to friends. Any child of ours would be a bloody nightmare," Sio responds. "Plus, if one of _us_ ever wanted to take over the world, or similar, such a child would be the only one capable of stopping us and that would be terribly awkward."

Sherlock chuckles to himself.

"What?" Sio asks in response.

"I'm just trying to parse what '_or similar_' might be. In any case, where does that leave us now?" Sherlock asks.

"More drugs and less sex?" Sio suggests with some skepticism.

Sherlock smiles devilishly, reaching behind him for the pipe, "drugs _are_ rather nice."

He fiddles with the contraption, takes a drag, then offers it to Sio. She shakes her head. Her tolerance is much lower, plus her motivation is tied only to diminishing pain, the "high" unnecessary at the moment as her mind is quiet. She takes the pipe from him as he instantly reacts, setting it down on the bedside table. Sherlock lies back as the feeling of tingling, aggressive relaxation overwhelms his body. She watches him, judging the degree of his incapacitation – relatively mild this time, she thinks. Her hand wanders down his body, reaching under the duvet.

"_You_ make me feel rather nice," she says.

He mumbles, "So you love me just for my hard bits."

She sits up and rolls over to straddle him, "I love your hard and soft bits with equal measure."

He laughs in the way he _only_ does when he is high, asking "Soft bits?"

"Brain tissue; perhaps not the most apt descriptor."

Continuing to giggle, he responds, "Apparently that makes you a zombie."

"How do _you_ know about zombies?"

"There was a film on the plane. Pretending to watch seemed to be the only way to stop people from attempting conversation."

Watching his face, she starts to gently rock her pelvis. "Men are a dime a dozen. You are sublimely unique."

He watches her move through half closed eyes. "Tell me you'll never leave again."

Without hesitation, she replies, "Impossible. The future is unpredictable."

"It shouldn't be. Not entirely."

"Even if it is deterministic chaos, which I doubt, there are too many variables. It might as well be stochastic."

Frowning, his tone modulated slightly, betraying a twinge of seriousness, he says "But barring accidental death…."

She doesn't let him finish. "If you just want me to _say_ it…" She begins while grinding on him in more earnest.

"You _must_ know me better than that," he says with some concern. "Empty words are as meaningless to me as they are to you."

Sio is getting breathless from her pelvic endeavors. She puts her hands on his shoulders and looks him directly in the eye as her lower body continues to rock and sway. "Right now, at this moment, I don't want to ever leave this room. Right now, I can envision no reality superior to one spent with you. But it is not within my power to promise anything more."

Sherlock puts his hands gently on her hips and winces with a short laugh. "I don't feel anything."

She stops moving as if she'd been slapped in the face. "What?" She asks.

Perceiving her interpretation, he quickly clarifies, "I don't have any feeling below the waist right now – sorry, the drugs make everything feel equally exquisite and you seem to be exerting yourself unnecessarily as nothing is actually going to happen for me. I'm happy to watch if you want to keep going…" He smiles a drunken sort of smile.

Sio, feeling the physical moment has passed and lacking the energy to ramp up again, pulls forward just enough to release him and the lays on his chest. He vaguely registers the unusually warm temperature of her skin.

Before drifting off to sleep, she whispers, "I don't feel myself at all. Things have gone so quiet." It worries her to feel so present in the moment; so cut-off from her analytic side. She should be getting better; her thoughts should be getting more clear, more abstract. But everything keeps swirling around the minute she is in right now.

The days pass in more or less the same way as this – a mixture of sex and opiates; ridiculous conversations and copious nudity; orgasms and sleep. It's all rather juvenile, but seems to be an odd respite for them both. On one of their more melancholy afternoons, Sherlock finds himself dwelling on a particular question.

"What would you have done if he succeeded?" He asks without warning.

"I'd rather not say," she replies honestly.

"How would you have done it?" He insists, her answer confirming his suspicion.

Resigned, Sio says without emotion, "There was a drain in the bottom of the pool with a chain attached. I kept a pair of handcuffs in the stuffing of one of the lawn chairs. I knew the schedule of the guards and when they'd take their breaks. It wouldn't take long if I had the courage to inhale…."

Whatever compelled him to demand to know this, he is unsure, especially knowing the answer in advance. But the devil is in the detail. For a moment, he lets himself imagine her lifeless body dangling in the blue water of the pool, her arm pulled straight as her buoyant body pulled limply against the chain. Then he rewinds to a few minutes earlier, when despite her determined intention, her body would fight against the circumstance and she would thrash against the metal constraint. This image makes him feel dizzy with horror; sick with rage. He mentally jumps forward again to her motionless body, giving himself a glimmer of what her death would mean. He quickly shuts down the searing chaos of his imagined reaction and instead mentally dissects the crime scene. How would he make the case for suicide, as everyone would assume murder? If he did not know her, would he think to look for the rip in the cushion? What else? Other wet footprints – no, they would have evaporated so their absence means nothing.

"Sherlock? I asked if you'd like some tea," Sio interrupts, knowing full well where his mind has gone.

"I just don't see why death would be the preferable option," Sherlock says, unwilling to let it drop.

"Death would be inevitable. It's really just a matter of controlling the timing," Sio says, rolling over onto her side.

If she had more energy, she would have said something flip, like "Remind me to inject you with progesterone sometime" or "50% of the world's genius has been wasted through pregnancy and childbirth" but of course it is more than the fear of being changed, of losing the precise endocrine balance that defines oneself. It is a fear of gaining emotions over which she likely would have little control; it is the fear of becoming a willing prisoner, or at least a complicit one. Too much to be lost, with what is gained an unknown, unknowable.

Sherlock lies in bed, pleasantly trapped in sleep, remaining so willingly with the cajoling effects of the opiates still permeating the tissues of his body. He has been falling in and out of dreams, gaining and losing control over them for an unknown amount of time. Right now, he is wandering through the rooms of his imagined Mind Palace, finding everything hysterically funny. He hears himself laugh, but then stops when it doesn't sound like his own voice. He searches for a mirror to confirm his identity and does so with just a mild thought to his rather unhealthy, distorted appearance. He suddenly appears in the doorway of a rather large room with a fireplace and a settee and bookshelves lining the walls. It takes him a moment to focus on what first looks like an amorphous blob reclining on the settee. Tuning his mind and taking a step forward, he is able to see a woman in a large black burka reading a book. He walks over and sits down next to her feet.

"Why are you wearing that?" He asks.

Sio's voice responds in a whisper, "I'm hiding."

"Why?"

"I'm not supposed to be here."

He reaches over and pulls off her hood, underneath which, her hair is wild and untamed like it was before she returned from the desert. Just as he is noticing the book she is reading – it's the one on beekeeping – they are both startled by the appearance of a dog barking and growling from the other side of the room.

Sherlock admonishes, "Stop it, Redbeard. Don't be rude."

"I don't think she likes her," Sio says in response.

"Who?"

Something moves underneath the fabric of the burka, making its way to the neck hole. What pops out is a tiny dragon about the size of a small cat. It leaps and starts to fly around the room. The dog has now disappeared and the tiny dragon is circling the bookshelves.

"It won't burn them, will it? I need those books."

"She's just exploring. She can scorch him if you like."

Sherlock feels dizzy watching the small beast circle the room.

"Scorch who?"

"That _is_ him, isn't it? In the basement. Your nemesis."

He nods slowly.

"She can get rid of him."

"No. He needs to stay here. So I can keep my eye on him."

The burka has disappeared and she is wearing one if his undershirts.

"Do I need to stay here too?" She asks, putting down the book.

"Would you like to?" Sherlock asks, unable to take his eyes off of the dragon, despite consciously wanting to look at the half-naked Sio. Is it getting bigger?

"Would have done. Wouldn't have minded. But it's not me anymore. She has to grow."

"What does she eat?"

Sio laughs at the joke. "Brains, of course. I'd better take her away, else she'll want yours too…"

He is alone again in the room. The fire is out and he is getting cold. With some relief, he sees a single bed in the corner. The next thing he knows, he is climbing into the bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opens them, he is back in the guestroom, Sio, looking pale and sweaty, asleep by his side.


	4. Chapter 4: Reality Bites

_**Author's Note: This chapter contains some minor sexual content. I have edited out most of it. If you are over 18, you can read the full chapter at adultfanfiction dot org. **_

**Chapter 4: Reality Bites**

Sio and Sherlock arrive at a hotel room in the late afternoon, transported by a car that was provided either by John himself or by Mycroft or the police. Neither really paid much attention to who was forcing them to emerge out of their week long party-for-two because everything still seemed rather hilarious to them as they slowly came down off the opiate high. Sherlock drops a bag that he has no memory of packing onto the bed.

"That is a gigantic bed," Sio marvels.

"I'm not sure I have ever seen a bed quite as big as that," Sherlock squints.

"I _like_ this hotel. How long do we have to stay here?" Sio asks.

"I have no idea. Wait. I think just one night. However long it takes them to get rid of the smell," Sherlock responds with a mischievous smirk.

"The look on John's face was rather priceless. _I_ think he's been to a brothel before and he was embarrassed that he recognized what one smelled like," Sio offers.

"I do think he was rather unfairly cross with me. I had asked him specifically what my responsibilities were and he did not mention nursing. Or if he did, I wasn't listening, so hardly can be held accountable. And I am not entirely convinced its been proven that opiates hinder healing _or _promote infection," Sherlock rants petulantly.

"It's all sorted now. Some antibiotics, a bit of a detox and I'll be good as new…"

"Ech, that sounds dreadful," he says flopping dramatically down on the cushioned chair by the bed.

"I have some ideas about how to make the best of it…" Sio says, dropping to her knees in front of him.

He shrugs rather noncommittally while she undoes his trousers and reaches her hand down into his pants.

A while later, with their bag still sitting in the middle of the gigantic bed, they are naked on the floor,

_Edited out for sexual content._

It takes a while for either of them to regain the faculty of their body, but soon they slide up onto the bed, finally usurping the leather bag. They rest a few moments in wakeful silence.

"Are you pretending?" Sio asks, resting her head on his chest.

He reflects, unsure.

Aside from the physical pleasure, the reason why he finds Sio's company so intoxicating has nearly everything to do with the fact that he needn't expend any energy to mask his thoughts, to modify or tweak his manner. As she had promised, all experience is heightened when charades are dropped and interactions are honest. But now that he is spoiled by this unique form of social interaction, he finds himself desperate to continue it; even if that might mean a sprinkling of effort or a smidge of deception here and there.

"Does it matter?" He asks in return.

"Not really. I just want to know if it's going to end. People like us don't handle surprises well."

Feeling freed by her words, he says softly while running his fingers gently across her back, "I will do everything in my power to keep you here."

"That's rather creepy," she mumbles, sliding into the diminuendo of consciousness.

Perhaps it was Sherlock's choice of words or force of habit, but in that moment before the stillness of sleep, Sio thinks about her brother. This would be the time; this _used_ to be the time for them. As children, when they still shared a room, the final hour of their day would be spent exchanging thoughts from the day across the dark. It was glorious to have someone to talk to who understood. They did not have their own language, as some twins do, but they rarely ever needed to be explicit about anything; things were just known after a few words. Even after she was given her own room, or rather her brother was given _his_ to prevent her from distracting his genius, the conversations continued, albeit silently. At the time, she had imagined the interactions to be real – to be a unique function of their brains allowing them to communicate directly. But in the short time between this separation and the accident that took away their waking hours together, she had often been frustrated by his lack of acknowledgement of the previous night's musings. Then _after_, she clung to the myth of their incorporeal connection as a way to hold on, to keep him as he once had been. And he was no longer able to dispel this myth, so the nearly nightly ritual continued well into her adulthood, even as she began to admit to herself that these were merely the workings of her own imagination and a projection of who she imagined her unconstrained brother would have become. When the real communication came, when she was confident her invention had worked, the mythic one dissipated and her nights became unnaturally quiet. _Had something else changed?_ She wonders as she finally drifts off to sleep.

Sometime later, Sherlock and Sio stir at the methodical beeping of a phone alarm. In the moment just before she is fully awake, Sio sees an image of her brother standing at the end of the bed. He is a full grown adult, sharing the basic features of the crumpled, wheelchair bound man he had grown in to, only fleshed out and healthy like the way he used to appear in their nightly chats. But there is something different – a blankness in his eyes that she would never have put there. As she tries to call out his name, the sound of her own voice wakes her up fully from the dream and she sits up abruptly.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asks, still groggy.

"Cae, I think. A dream," she responds, wincing from the sudden motion as the last of the drugs they had been taking wears off.

"Remind me why you set an alarm?" Sherlock asks, obviously irritated.

"The pills – John was very insistent I take them every 4 hours. Something about sepsis…"

"Right. Are you feeling better?"

She looks around the room to test herself, her eyes landing on the movement of the sheets as Sherlock sits up. "Yes. I think the fever is gone. I need something to eat."

"Shall we order something?"

"I'd hate to spoil the room with the smell of food. Lets get dressed and go to the restaurant, shall we? It'll be like a date."

"You told me you didn't want to be taken on dates."

"Lets just call it dinner, then."

She slides out of bed and heads to the bathroom to wash up.

Sherlock catches himself fondly reviewing their last tryst when he suddenly frowns. He calls out to her, "What happened to your birthmark?"

"What?"

"The birthmark on your back. The one six inches below your left shoulder blade; looked like a squashed butterfly."

"I don't know. I rarely see that part of my body. Are you sure it wasn't just an odd freckle or tan line?"

"You should know better than to question my observational skills. It was there and now it isn't."

In the bathroom, she turns around and tries to see the spot he is referring to. The skin is peculiarly blemish free. She shakes her head.

"Maybe it got scraped off? Or distorted by the skin infection somehow?" She suggests, feeling too tired and hungry to want to deal with the cause of a missing blemish. She walks into the main room and starts to gather some clothes. Sherlock grabs her hips rather roughly to reexamine the area. She winces.

"Unlikely, as there are no other signs of scar tissue. Curious," he observes before releasing his grip.

She suddenly feels a bit ill and has to steady herself on the chair by the desk. Attributing it to withdrawal, she closes her eyes and stays still a moment until she regains control.

"I would like to go," she says quietly as she pulls a dress over her head.

Sherlock nods reluctantly and proceeds to get ready.

Sherlock and Sio sit at a table in a half-empty hotel restaurant. Sio is picking at some bread while Sherlock engages is some amusing deconstructions of the wait staff and fellow patrons. Sio smiles a bit too easily.

"What?" Sherlock asks during a momentary pause in conversation.

"I didn't say anything," Sio responds.

"Obviously, but you look as though you meant to," he says.

She shrugs, "I keep thinking of questions, but then answering them myself on your behalf." In truth, with the fever dissipating, her mind is jumping to action and is beginning to race rather manically.

"Then I supposed I appreciate your not wasting my time," Sherlock answers as if this makes complete sense, before taking a sip of water. "Are you completely satisfied with your answers?"

"Yes," she answers with a tiny hesitation.

"But?" He asks.

"I didn't say…," she begins.

"Yes, but you were going to," he explains.

She pauses a moment, but then shakes her head saying, "no, just answered that one as well."

"Surely there is _something_ …" he suggests.

She squints her eyes and beings with, "what would you do if you didn't have mysteries to solve?"

"Boring. And you are just projecting; trying to figure out what you are going to do without your lab. Try again," he commands abruptly.

"But what am I going to _do_?" She asks.

Disregarding this with a quick twitch of the head, he says, "I believe we were talking about _me_. Lets get back to that. You were going to ask me something."

"Have you ever thought of becoming a criminal? I imagine it would be easy for you to…" her voice trails off.

"Answered your own question again?" He asks with a knowing smirk.

"But presumably there could be challenging aspects – you have encountered some rather clever criminals. And if so, would you object based on ethics or convenience?" She counters.

"What do you think?"

"Convenience. You like the consistency of your environment – frees the mind for other things. Criminal masterminds don't usually live in granny flats," Sio says with a wink.

"Perhaps I should go back up to the room while you interrogate me," Sherlock says, obviously amused. "And Baker Street is _not_ a granny flat."

"Well…" She counters.

"Might I remind you that it is technically your residence as well at the moment," he responds.

"Then I suppose 'criminal masterminds' are off the table for both of us, then," she concludes with a smile.

Sherlock suddenly sits up a bit straighter. "You're deflecting. I was wrong before. Clever girl."

"How long ago did we order? It feels like _ages_," she complains.

"You don't want to talk about yourself. Why?" Sherlock asks.

"I almost never want to _talk_ about myself. This is nothing new," she responds.

"Really? I rather like talking about myself," he observes.

"Liar."

"I _am_ usually the most interesting person in the room," he states.

"You like _hearing_ yourself talk. Not quite the same thing," she responds.

"Oh, I see. You think that if you don't keep me occupied talking, either about myself or about everyone else, I might ask _you_ questions. Questions you either can't or don't care to answer. Well, you needn't trouble yourself with any of that. I'm not that interested."

Sio can't help herself from grinning at this. They share a chuckle and a look. It takes a few moments before either of them realize that the person standing next to their table is, in fact, _not_ the waiter.

"Well if it isn't Sio Stanton, in the flesh," the man says with thick Yorkshire accent and a put-on cheerful tone.

Sio squints at the man before her – he is probably in his late 40's, stocky and muscular, nice looking in a rough sort of way. A moment passes before recognition wipes the smile from her face.

"Tim. I would act surprised, only I don't do that. Didn't take you long," she says.

"You just disappeared. How does someone just disappear like that?" Tim asks.

She glances over to Sherlock, "With detectives like Tim on the force, being a criminal seems easier still."

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" Tim asks, barely taking his eyes off of Sio to glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Why would I?"

Tim laughs. "Come on, Sio. Surely enough time has passed. Water under the bridge and all that."

"Sherlock, this is Tim Riordan, a man I used to have sex with," Sio says reluctantly.

Sherlock just nods.

"Aw, Sio, why do you always have to _do _that. Minimize it. As if that's all it was," Tim responds.

"Because that _is_ all it was," Sio answers, obviously frustrated.

Tim holds up his hands. "Fine. You spin it how you like. I'm done with all that now."

"Really? Because it doesn't sound…" Sio comments before being interrupted by Tim.

"Yeah, Sio and I had our time, didn't we luv?" He turns toward Sherlock before adding in a conspiratorial tone, "My neighbors were sure glad when it ended, I can tell you that. I used to get so many complaints."

Sio rolls her eyes.

After a brief pause, Sherlock mocks, "Sorry. Was that meant to make me jealous?"

"What do you want, Tim?" Sio asks, exasperated.

"Nothing. Nothing. Just saw you and thought I'd come over to say hello. It's been a long time." He glances down at her legs – her dress is short enough that her knees are exposed when she crosses her legs and the rug burns are clearly visible. He sneers, "See your MO hasn't changed. Just the one, or do you have someone else lined up for the evening?"

"You do realize that slut shaming only works on women who feel ashamed? You are wasting your breath with me," Sio answers.

Tim laughs, knowingly. He shrugs, glances at her left hand, which is loosely gripping her water glass.

"Nice ring," he says as he abruptly reaches for her hand. Sio whips it away as soon as he touches it, knocking the water glass over in the process, which then falls to the floor and breaks. Sherlock stands up.

Tim holds up his hands as if surrendering. "I don't want any trouble. Just surprised is all. Never thought I'd see the day when Sio Stanton let a man put a ring on her finger."

He bends down and starts picking up the shards of glass and placing them in a cloth napkin.

"As much of a pleasure as this has been, I think it is time for you to go," Sherlock says.

"I was thinking the same thing," Tim says standing up, the napkin filled with glass still in his hands.

"How is it that you have _still_ not moved on? I cannot understand…" Sio spits before being interrupted again.

"Don't flatter yourself. I've moved on – that's my wife over there." He points to the corner of the restaurant where a woman sits with a fidgety child on her lap, her face a picture of annoyance.

Tim explains, "With all the bruises (he indicates with his hand the bruises still clearly visible on her neck and chest), I was concerned. Thought I'd check up on you."

"Do they look familiar?" Sio chirps.

Tim shakes his head at this, visibly stung by her words. "Fine. I'm done," he says as he backs away from the table.

Sherlock sits down. He cocks his head to the side, obviously thinking about something.

"Well that was rather unsettling. Police detectives make disturbingly effective stalkers. Still, I thought I'd seen the last of him," Sio says.

"Why? What happened last time?" Sherlock asks.

"We had a little talk. I made some threats about ruining his career and thing were quiet afterwards," she explains.

"How did it start?" He asks.

"It was my mistake initially. I let it go on too long. We had good chemistry in bed and I got rather lazy about moving on. It was early days still and I was under the obviously misguided gendered hype that men don't form emotional attachments based on sex. Everyone said it was true. Silly that I believed it, I suppose, since the reverse is not remotely true in my case. He got so angry when I finally ended it. I think he just assumed that since I was a woman, I would form an emotional attachment and he refused to believe it wasn't true. And then it just went on and on and on and he got angrier and angrier."

"Your comment about the bruises?"

"That was rather unfair of me, but I knew it would make him leave. In a fit of anger, he did put his hand on me once – around my neck for just a moment of rage. I wasn't hurt at all, but he was mortified – convinced he was now a domestic abuser. So I used that to make him go away. I told him there were bruises; that I took pictures," she confesses.

"Perhaps you were naïve to think he would believe something like that could ruin his career," Sherlock responds.

"No. I suppose it makes him a good man, but he believed it fully. The guilt of it more than anything else," She counters.

"You know this wasn't a coincidence, him being here?" Sherlock asks.

"What?"

"He knew you'd be here. The child was obviously due for a nap, the wife not dressed for brunch at a hotel. He brought them here as props. But how did he know?"

Sio shakes her head.

"And why did he want your fingerprint?"

"The glass!" Sio exclaims, realizing the ploy. She looks over to where Tim's family had been sitting, but they are gone.

She suddenly feels impossibly tired and lays her head down on the table.

"I am extraordinarily peckish," she whimpers.

"Food will be here in a moment. I imagine keeping the waiter away was all part of the plan," Sherlock explains.

"What plan?" Sio asks.

"To get your fingerprints. To confirm you are here. Pay attention. To what purpose, I don't know yet," Sherlock answers with a slight frown.

"We should have ordered room service," Sio sighs.


End file.
